It Feels Like Fear
by too-much-like-Luna
Summary: In which everyone has trouble dealing with Sherlock's death, even the one who knows the truth. Irene/Molly.


**Warnings: **brief discussion of suicide/self-harm, perceived suicide of a main character

Sequel to Break Me Out of My Cocoon

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><p><em>And it feels like fear, like I'll disappear<br>Gets so hard to steer, yet I go on  
>Do we need debate when it seems too late<br>Like I bleed but wait, like nothing's wrong? _

**-Lift Poets of the Fall**

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><p>John Watson makes Molly feel cold. Some days his eyes remind her too much of her mother's, in the days leading up to and following her father's death. Some days his eyes remind her of nothing because she's never seen anything so empty. Those days are the worst. Those are the days when he won't answer the door and she has to fiddle with the old lock until she can finally open the door herself—hesitant as she steps inside, never quite certain what she'll find.<p>

John tells her to stop worrying about suicide, once. He says "I could never kill myself before, why would now be any different? Besides, wouldn't want to imitate..._him_ so obviously."

Molly is not reassured.

Sherlock would have had a lot to say about Molly's compulsive need to check on John. But Sherlock gave Molly this secret, see, and then he went away and now only John is left as a reminder. So Molly doesn't think Sherlock would have a leg to stand on, really, in the end. Nor would he have any right to try.

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><p>Irene hadn't even needed to ask. When Irene got to Molly's flat the night of the fall it was to find her kneeling just inside the door, hair unbound and hands shaking, and she had said nothing until she had discarded her coat.<p>

"What do you need?" she had then asked.

And Molly had said, slowly but surely, "I need to feel like it was the only thing I could have done."

That night, with gentle words and touches that burned, until the dark gave way to gold, Irene had shown Molly the truth, purged her of her guilt, allowed her to grieve.

John doesn't have anyone who can do the same for him, and so Molly sits in his bedsit for hours, sometimes, silent when he needs her to be, talkative when he needs to be distracted, always calm. John doesn't pretend to know why she bothers, and so neither does she. It's just something she's got into the habit of doing.

Sometimes, she'll look over to John from her chair and study his face, his hands, his posture, and she'll make sure she's not mimicking any of it, that their actions aren't synchronized, that their faces belie different thoughts. Sometimes, she'll think of Sherlock and "You've always counted," except she _hadn't, _really, she had never really mattered to Sherlock until...

But no. It had nothing to do with Irene. Suddenly she'd mattered to Sherlock because he could use her, could facilitate the greatest ruse of his life. (John sighs, his face determinedly still, his posture rigid, hands clenched. Molly spreads her legs, slouches in her chair, lets her fingers trace patterns onto the fabric of her skirt.)

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><p>Molly did not expect it to affect her overly much, honestly. She'd thought she'd be fine since she knows that Sherlock's death is a ruse. She'd expected to carry on as usual.<p>

But she doesn't, not quite.

Two months after the funeral Molly stops in the middle of the morgue. She notices, quite distantly, that her hands are empty. She remembers that the day has been long, not a lot of work to be done. Quiet. There's a weight in the pocket of her lab coat, her phone. She got a text from John at noon, a reassurance that he's fine, didn't mean to fall asleep on her last night. She is glad that he slept at all, frankly. She hasn't been.

Molly closes her eyes, swallows. Slowly, she draws her phone out of the pocket, rests it in her hand only a minute before opening her eyes and calling the now familiar number.

'Irene," she says softly when her call is picked up, "I... I don't think that I know...what I'm doing, exactly. I...I don't know. This...it's...wrong. Everything is _wrong._ And I could fix it but he always had secrets and this is the last."

"Hush, girl," Irene says, the command a relief. "Meet me at your flat in one hour."

"Yeah," Molly says, shaky in relief. "Yeah, okay."

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><p>When she steps through the door of Molly's flat Irene offers no greeting. She walks directly to Molly's bedroom and Molly follows obediently.<p>

"Strip," Irene commands, and Molly shivers as she lifts each layer that covers her skin.

"Kneel beside the bed," Irene continues and Molly obeys eagerly. She lowers her head demurely but Irene grabs a handful of her hair and jerks her face up.

Irene studies her in silence, one finger absently tracing Molly's lips, and after a moment she draws away to undress herself. Irene folds her clothes and turns to place them on an armchair. She pauses, just for a second, before turning to face Molly once more, uncharacteristically uncertain. And then, slowly, she moves until she stands just before Molly, moves until when she kneels her breasts brush against Molly's, their lips and knees only inches apart.

Molly breathes in sharply and her eyelids flutter for just a second before she forces them open to watch the woman before her.

Irene leans forward, lifts a hand and rests it against Molly's cheek, and then very slowly presses her lips against Molly's, her actions gentle and completely unexpected. When she pulls away Molly bites her lip, blinking rapidly. "I don't know how to do this," she whispers once she has control of herself once more. "I'm not this strong." She raises her eyes. "Show me how to fake it."

When Irene kisses her again it is a strong, possessive touch, and her tongue plunges into Molly's mouth stronger, more intrusive, than she ever would have liked before. But this is after. Now Molly whimpers as the kiss grows even deeper, as Irene clenches a hand in her hair and uses it to yank her head back until she can ravage Molly's mouth and meet with no resistance.

Irene pulls back, orders "On the bed, girl, on your stomach." And Molly obeys without thought, giddy with the familiarity and anticipation.

"He used you for a reason, Molly," Irene whispers once she has situated herself atop Molly's thighs, and neither of them need her to specify of whom she speaks. "I'll remind you how to be strong, and we'll prove him right."

Later, Molly will see John, sitting on his bed as usual, and she'll take in his face, his hands, his posture. She'll be reminded of her mother in his gaze, and she'll be reminded of herself in the way his hands clench (trying desperately to hold on to something that was never within his grasp), and she'll see a soldier facing an execution squad in his posture. The words _"You've always counted" _will echo in her thoughts and Molly will realize those words _were_ always about Irene, but they were also true; because now John is alone and Molly is not. Molly has a secret and John has his grief but only Molly can keep her shame hidden, and only because she has Irene. Molly mattered because she was useful and she had someone who could demonstrate strength. She will wonder whether using her was the first time Sherlock ever realized that someone other than himself would need something specific, whether John is aware that Sherlock spent his last hours attempting to save John from himself.

But for now she arches under Irene, moaning unabashedly at the sting of Irene's open palm, defences down and mind blank with nothing but pleasure and relief.

"What are you?" Irene demands, and Molly sobs the answer.

"Strong. I'm strong."

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><p><em>Like the other day, I thought you won't be coming back<br>I came to realize my lackluster dreams  
>And among the schemes and all the tricks we try to play<br>Only dreams will hold their sway and defy  
><em>**-Lift**** by Poets of the Fall**


End file.
